Conspiracy Unleashed Read online

  CONSPIRACY UNLEASHED

  L. Danvers

  © 2016 L. Danvers

  Edited by C. Davis & Kit Duncan

  Cover Art by Heather Hamilton-Senter

  www.bookcoverartistry.com

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  FREEBIES, SNEAK PEEKS AND MORE!

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  FREEBIES, SNEEK PEAKS AND MORE!

  THANK YOU FOR READING!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PREVIEW OF FATE ABANDONED

  Chapter One

  DEDICATION

  FREEBIES, SNEAK PEEKS AND MORE!

  Join my readers’ group to get sneak peeks of my upcoming books and be the first to know about new releases. You’ll also get access to character backgrounds and an author Q&A for Conspiracy Unleashed. So what are you waiting for? Join my readers’ group today!

  Chapter One

  The innards of a glossy black box sputtered like a stalled propeller. Brilliant lights flashed above it with such dizzying speed Cal had to divert her eyes, focusing instead on finding her reserved seat. Two technicians argued about the cause of the problem as they opened the face of the holographic projector’s control panel and examined its contents. After a couple of minutes, one of the men looked up at the flickering face hovering above the box.

  “Sorry, Stan. You’re going to have to pop over here yourself. The HP’s on the fritz again.”

  The face muttered something in reply, but its voice was distorted, like an eerily deep string of vowels. The faces projected over the boxes on either side rolled their eyes.

  Reporters from agencies not well-funded enough to afford the snazzy, though fickle, HPs swarmed inside the White House Briefing Room, bringing with them the slurred stench of sweat, cheap cologne and expensive coffee. A man three times Cal’s size plopped down in the blue cushioned seat beside her.

  “Fran on maternity leave?” he asked.

  “Yep,” she said. “Had the baby late last night. A girl. I’m Cal Cameron, by the way.” She offered him her hand.

  “Ah, so you’re Cal,” he said, pumping her fist. “I’ve heard about you. Fran talks about you all the time. She says you’re Channel 12’s rising star. Nice to meet you. I’m Jay Blackwell with the D.C. Daily.”

  Cal knew who he was. The Daily was one of the only remaining newspapers in print, subscribed to by people like her dad, a proud member of the local chapter of the Order of the Luddites. Members of the organization believed the rise of advanced technologies would one day be society’s downfall. The Daily was one of the few luxuries Howard Cameron didn’t mind splurging on.

  The buzzing reporters fell silent as U.S. Press Secretary Priya Jindal hurried to the podium, adjusting her blouse and tugging on the hem of her blazer as she walked. She set her FlexTab on the stand, gave it a couple swipes and leaned in to the microphone.

  “Good morning, everyone. I apologize for keeping you waiting. As you know it has been a busy day here already. Let’s get straight to your questions.”

  Cal threw her hand in the air. This was the perfect opportunity to get some real answers. As an investigative reporter, it was hard finding a source in the White House who would give her the time of day. But here in the Briefing Room, filling in for Fran, the press secretary had no choice but to hear her out.

  “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  “Calista Cameron. Channel 12 News.”

  “Oh, Fran had her baby?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Please send her our regards. Now—your question, Ms. Cameron?”

  Cal stood. With the blink of an eye, her computerized contact lens started recording. “Thank you. I’m sure you’re well aware of the staggering increase in the number of disappearances across the United States in recent years. There are people who say it’s not a coincidence. That there’s an underlying connection. Does President Douglass plan to open an investigation or form a committee to look further into—”

  “Let me stop you there, Ms. Cameron. This is nothing more than conjecture, and the president has far more important things on his plate.”

  “But he has to admit that this is—”

  “As a journalist, I am sure you are well aware of the events currently at play across the world. As such, I think you can understand why this is not a top priority.” A few of the reporters chuckled as Cal slumped into her seat. “Next time you raise your hand, please have a serious question prepared.” She dismissed her, gesturing across the room. “Yes, you in the back.”

  A portly young man stood, pulling up his sagging pants with one hand and straightening his sloppy blue tie with the other. After clearing his throat, he slipped his glasses down the bridge of his nose and peered over them at the press secretary.

  “Bernstein. Max Bernstein. CBE News. Um, well it appears Spain is getting ready to declare war on France any day now,” he said. His shaking voice suggested this was his first day, too. “As one of France’s closest allies, does President Douglass have any intention of deploying U.S. troops to France?”

  Silence fell. The room full of reporters awaited Jindal’s response. She exhaled and smoothed down her skirt before leaning in to the microphone once more. “You know I would love nothing more than to give you a definitive answer. Unfortunately, I cannot do that at this time. In the meantime, I assure you the president is doing what he can to facilitate negotiations between the two countries.”

  A number of hands shot into the air. Older reporters who insisted on doing things the old-fashioned way scribbled on their notepads. The younger ones unrolled their FlexTabs, their fingers flying as they typed. Cal blinked, taking a photograph of Jindal as she fielded questions on what, despite what she said, pointed to being an impending war.

  After a handful of questions ranging from the federal regulation of hovercar flightpaths to more general questions on the economy, the gaggle of reporters was dismissed. The reporters attending via hologram disappeared in a flash. In a hurry to get back to their respective news agencies, the others swarmed the door, bumping into and shoving one another on their way out of the packed briefing room. Caught in the sea of bodies, Cal was swept into the hallway, the heels of her stilettos barely meeting the floor. She turned to head toward the telepad as a young male reporter brushed past her, knocking her to the floor. Her hands slapped against the tile, catching her hard fall. Huddled on the floor, she turned over her palms to assess the damage. The skin on her left hand was peeling.

  “Seriously?” She grunted to herself, pulling at the loose skin. A wrinkled hand appeared before her, and she lifted
her chin to see to whom it belonged. “Oh, uh, thank you, Vice President Pierce,” she said, taking his hand. Her cheeks turned as bright red as her lipstick. Of course she would embarrass herself in front of the second most powerful person in the world.

  “You can call me Teddy.” He gave an innocent wink. He paused for a moment, his aging gray eyes resting on her green ones. He cocked his head to the side and gave a sympathetic grin. The vice president opened his mouth and was about to speak when a loud beep blasted from his right ear. “Answer.” A silver earring no larger than the head of a pin expanded into a metal earpiece that wrapped around his entire ear. “Sorry, I have to take this,” he said out of the side of his mouth. He waved goodbye and marched down the hall.

  Cal watched him whisper into his xfone, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one could hear him. He was a nice enough man. He was down to earth, considering he was filthy rich. In his younger years he had helped invent the credittat, the wrist tattoo that replaced credit cards and driver’s licenses, as well as the corresponding credittat scanners. This invention eliminated identity theft, as each tattoo was unique to its owner and, so far, had proven to be impossible to replicate. Pierce became one of the wealthiest men in the country, which was why Cal and many others supposed President Daniel Douglass was so eager to have him as his running mate. It was unfortunate that campaign funding was one of the only uses Douglass had in mind for Pierce. Sure, he sent him to make the occasional appearance. But the tension between the two men was more than evident to the entire country and the world. It was a shame. He was such an intelligent and competent man. Pierce deserved to spend his time in a more meaningful way than smiling for cameras and making small talk with foreign dignitaries.

  Cal checked the time on her black wristband. She was cutting it close. She had to hurry back to the office if she was going to meet her deadline. Katz would kill her if she was late again.

  She stood in line for the telepad. They were free to use, but expensive to purchase, so the number of them across the globe was limited. In fact, disputes over the regulation of telepads were, in part, what had caused the upheaval between France and Spain. France felt if people wanted to visit the country, they should do so through the more vetted channels. But Spain had no regulations prohibiting people from exiting their country via teleportation. Because of that, a criminal group fled Spain and teleported to France. Once there, their crime spree continued. Authorities in France caught them, but they refused to turn them back over to Spain. This, on top of previous disputes between the countries, heightened the tension. Other countries across the world had taken sides, and it was only a matter of time before a full-on war broke out.

  Cal sighed. There were fifteen people ahead of her, and the line wasn’t moving. The guy at the front couldn’t remember his station’s coordinates. Cal stood on her tiptoes to see who was holding things up. She wasn’t surprised to spot Max Bernstein fumbling through his pockets. Some of the reporters made annoyed sighs while other more blunt ones spewed expletives at him as he unrolled his FlexTab and searched for the correct combination of numbers.

  Cal scanned the line. She was one of the only people not holding a FlexTab. She’d been saving up for one for a while, but pesky things like food and utility bills kept getting in the way.

  She reached the front and entered Channel 12’s coordinates into the floating keypad. Once she was on top of the round silver disc that hovered inches above the ground, she stayed as still as she could, trying not to slip in her four-inch stilettos. She braced herself. The telepad base beeped three times.

  Teleporting was both exhilarating and terrifying. While there had only been a small number of instances in which someone arrived to their destination dismembered, the slight possibility of something going wrong stayed in the back of Cal’s mind. It was new technology, and she’d only used it a handful of times as transportation for business.

  Cal appeared in her news station in a matter of seconds, shivering while steadying herself. Teleporting made her so cold. Some people were more sensitive to it than others. It didn’t help that the newsroom itself was freezing. People were always bickering about the temperature in there, but those who preferred the cold always won the fight over the thermostat because, as they said, they could always put more clothes on, but they could only take so many off.

  Cal walked straight toward her desk and fished a computerized lens out of her left eye while waiting for her computer to start up. Footsteps shuffled behind her, but she didn’t have to guess who they belonged to. She’d recognize that smug shuffle anywhere.

  “Too chicken to get the injection?” Gregory Gilden asked, peering into her contact lens case.

  “I’m not chicken,” she said, plucking out the other lens. “Call me crazy, but I don’t want a needle jammed into my eye to install a permanent computerized device.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s quick and painless. You don’t feel a thing.”

  She glared at him, searching for some part of his appearance to nitpick. She loved getting under his skin. The corners of her lips curved into a smile. “Your forehead’s looking shiny.”

  Gregory and Cal had a rocky relationship from the start. He’d been with the news station for more than thirty years when she first came on the team as a producer. The viewers adored him, but not as much as he adored himself. He was charismatic—on camera, that is. His fans called him the “silver fox.” Cal found the nickname stupid and unoriginal, but he reveled in the attention he received from his loyal viewers. What they didn’t see, though, was that he showed up to work late, usually smelling of gin. He never read his scripts before he went on air, and he didn’t listen to time cues. He was a producer’s worst nightmare.

  He and Cal got into it a couple of years ago after she called him out on not reading a script before he went on air. She’d written a story and accidentally typed “shit” instead of “shut.” Needless to say, their news director chewed both of them out. Sure, it was Cal’s fault. But if Gregory had taken two seconds to glance over the script ahead of time, he would have caught it and saved them both from the embarrassment. They’d been going at it ever since.

  “Hey, what’s with the attitude?” he asked, sending a cloud of powder into the air. He dabbed his forehead with a makeup sponge from the golden compact case he kept in his pocket. “It’s not my fault your question at the press briefing tanked. Have fun explaining that one to Katz. When are you going to drop this little conspiracy theory of yours, anyway? You’ve been working on this piece for, what, six months?”

  “Three months. And it’s not a conspiracy theory. It’s a legitimate story. There are real questions that need to be answered here, and the public deserves to be aware of what’s going on. Why is no one else here concerned about there being a connection?”

  Greg snorted. Cal narrowed her eyes.

  “Laugh if you want, but believe me, I will get to the bottom of this. I’m telling you, there’s a story here. That’s our job as journalists, isn’t it? To uncover the truth.”

  “Mhmm.”

  “Now if you don’t mind, I need to put a package together for the 10:00.”

  “You didn’t hear?” He smirked. “Guess you need to go chat with Katz.”

  Their boss, Claire Katz, was busy chewing out the new intern on the other side of the room. Sue Lee was sickeningly sweet, so much so that in a matter of days she had driven the entire newsroom crazy. But Cal felt bad for her. The girl was trying her best to fit in and learn the ins and outs of the business.

  Sue was terrified. At four-foot-eleven with long gray hair slicked into a tight bun and round, oversized glasses, Katz struck fear in the most seasoned journalists. Rumor had it she once made a man who had reported from three separate war zones cry because she scolded him for mispronouncing someone’s name on air.

  Cal weaved through the maze of desks and cubicles toward her boss. She cleared her throat to get Katz’s attention. Sue was relieved by the interruption. She took the hint that th
is didn’t involve her and scurried away, wiping a stream of tears from her plump cheeks.

  “Is there something I should know about?” Cal asked. “My story’s running tonight, isn’t it?”

  “You didn’t see the press release?” Katz asked. Cal couldn’t tell if her tone was sincere or if she was trying to scold her for not having read it yet. “The president called for a press conference, so the 10:00 is being preempted. Sounds like it’s going to take at least the whole timeslot, if not longer.”

  “What? What about my package?”

  Katz rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. I’m sure he’s doing it to inconvenience you.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What’s the latest on that story you’ve been working on? The one about the disappearances? Any progress?”

  “Not yet. I’m working on it.”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this anyway. I think it’s time to table it. Now that you’re filling in for Fran, you have bigger things to focus on.” Katz turned to face the large collage of television screens and holograms towering in front of them, displaying news channels from across the globe. She glanced at Cal, annoyed that she was still standing there. “Don’t you get it? What do you think our viewers care about more? A few missing people or the threat of war?”

  “But it’s not a few.”

  “Even so, for a long time, their main concern will be this impending war. Are troops being deployed? Where will the funding come from? How will this affect the economy? And how will that affect their pocketbooks? Look, I’m not saying your story isn’t important. But there are bigger things going on in the world right now. With Fran gone, Shawn retiring and Hugh transferring to New York, we need you to focus your efforts on covering the White House.”

  “I don’t mean to argue with you, but you need to trust me on this. I have this nagging hunch that I’m onto something. There’s something deeper going on here that I need to investigate.”

  “A hunch is not enough to go on. I don’t want to hear any more about it. Understand?”